


And Make Him a Bridge of Gold

by Josey (cestus)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Action/Adventure, M/M, Mutual Pining, lads being dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 18:44:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4273986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cestus/pseuds/Josey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-series. The lads' first forays into partnership are littered with potholes. Written for the Geography session of the National Curriculum Challenge. Prompts being meadow, Brittany and sauerkraut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Make Him a Bridge of Gold

**Author's Note:**

> This was written years ago. I'm simply moving all my fic over to AO3.

"Gorilla."

Doyle choked on his sandwich. "Pull the other one, mate."

"No, seriously. Bushmeat it's called. Can have anything in it. Rats, elephant, anything."

"Christ, stick anything in that mouth, won't you." Doyle let his gaze linger on the delicious pouting lower lip for a moment longer than was strictly sensible, imagining it red and kiss-swollen, closing around his-

"Liver sausage."

This time Bodie had to thump him hard between the shoulder blades. Egg and cress didn't take kindly to being inhaled.

"Wanna get that seen to, sunshine," he was saying as Doyle wiped tears from his eyes and tried find his breath. "Heimlich manoeuvre's for special occasions only."

The Heimlich manoeuvre? Doyle had a sudden image of Bodie draped over his back, holding him tight, and was eternally grateful that nearly choking to death covered his blush. This week with Bodie had been an exercise in self-control, but sooner or later he was going to give himself away. Rumour had circulated amongst the typing pool before the new agent even arrived - according to the girls, the bloke was Connery with Moore's eyebrows. Turned out they weren't far off the mark.

"Penny for them?"

"Uh, what?"

"You were either day dreaming or a bit of sarnie's still stuck. Want me to take a look?" Bode leaned towards him, grin on his face and hands ready to grab, leaving Doyle in no doubt that he was about to be pinned down and thoroughly inspected.

"Gerroff, you mad bastard!" he yelled with a wild swipe at the advancing paws. It was bad enough when Bodie kept to his own side of the car. There was no way in hell Doyle wanted him any closer. Not in public anyway.

Luckily the RT chose that moment to squawk, calling them in as back-up, and that was pretty much that for the rest of the day.

One arms bust later, Doyle dropped his temporary partner at home and headed for his own flat, determined to relax in a hot bath and soak his bruises. Those best laid plans took a back seat when he found Cowley in his living room, ensconced in the best armchair with a glass in his hand.

"Good evening, sir," he said as he locked up, not a bit surprised to see it was his bottle of decent whisky that had been broached.

"Aye, maybe it is," Cowley replied, sliding another well-loaded glass in Doyle's direction, past the bulging file on the coffee table.

Resigned to the interruption of his evening, and the raiding of his supplies, Doyle took the drink and sank onto a couch, wincing as strained muscles made themselves felt.

"How do you find working with Bodie?"

The expression in those icy eyes told him that this was more than a casual enquiry and Doyle wondered if Bodie had been asked the same question yet. "Not bad," he replied.

"I didn't get the impression you were too pleased on Monday."

On Monday, Doyle had taken one look at the newly seconded William Bodie and had immediately retreated behind the desk since neither CI5 nor his jeans were up to dealing with his reaction. But he couldn't exactly say that to the old man. "Looked worse than he is," he said with a shrug. "He'll make someone a decent partner." Just not me. Not if I ever want to function normally again.

"Good. I was hoping you'd say that because he's going to be yours."

"What?" Doyle was half out of his seat before he noticed what he was doing and subsided again. Arguing with Cowley was a pointless exercise at the best of times and objecting to things tended to make him even more enthusiastic. "Sorry, sir," he said, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Been a long day."

"Aye, I know, it has. That's one of the reasons I want you two partnered as soon as possible. The streets aren't getting safer and having agents working alone is proving too much of a risk."

"But why him? Why Bodie?" He was desperate, but did his best to hide it. "I've worked with most of the others and you never decided to stick them on me."

"Because Bodie's different, his background, his attitude. Like chalk and cheese the pair of you. But it works. And if you take the time to think about it, laddie, you'll see I'm right."

The bugger of it was, the old man was right, and Doyle knew it. Despite, or maybe because of, the odd tension between them, this past week had been more productive than any partnering in his previous six months with the department. Jax was a good bloke, but his methods and Doyle's were just too similar and they ended up getting bogged down in the minutiae. Bodie cut through it. He saw the big picture.

Digging both fists into his hair, Doyle stared at the floor, wondering how the hell he'd manage to keep his hands to himself if he was working with the bloke all the time. He'd just have to be careful. Extra careful. "Yeah, okay," he said finally. "You mean permanent, I presume?"

"If it works as well as I think it will, aye."

"And what does Bodie say?"

"Like you he'll say whatever I tell him to say and like it."

That'd be the day, Doyle thought. All 'yes, sir, no, sir', to the old man's face, was Bodie, but behind his back… No, that wasn't fair. He wasn't insubordinate, just… cheeky.

Cowley was still waiting, presumably for Doyle to pull himself together. He gave it his best shot, horribly aware of his grubby jeans and filthy hands. "So, tomorrow?"

"Eight, my office. And I'll want you to have read this." Cowley pushed the thick file towards him. "Bodie will get yours. It's only fair."

Personnel files. CI5, a bit like the foreign legion, tended to attract those who had pasts to leave behind, but Cowley didn't believe in partners working in the dark. Casual pairings were encouraged without the necessary background info, but anything permanent and files were exchanged for mutual perusal. It was a situation that suited Doyle. There were people, even in this outfit, who'd react badly if they knew he'd spoken out about colleagues, however corrupt.

He placed a hand on top of the file and stared up at Cowley. "Anything I should know before I start?" he asked.

Cowley levelled a look at him. "Just remember the man you've worked with. And try not to judge him too harshly."

Definitely a foreign legion moment. Well, whatever dark secrets William Bodie was hiding, Doyle was about to find out. "Tomorrow then, sir."

"And don't be late."

***

The following morning, feeling a little hung-over and red-eyed from hours of reading, Doyle was outside Cowley's office wondering exactly what he was letting himself in for. The old man hadn't been wrong referring to Bodie and himself as chalk and cheese. In many ways, you'd be hard-pressed to find two such different backgrounds.

If the files were true, and Doyle had no reason to doubt them, Bodie had spent the best part of fifteen years globetrotting, and half of that on the wrong side of the law. Oh, not technically - at least not enough to make him a criminal in the British government's eyes - but morally. Gun-running, mercenary armies, smuggling, from the middle-east to central Africa. All topped off by nine months incarceration in a Congo jail, ironically for assault. And the years in the Paras and SAS were cold comfort. Postings to Ireland, Germany, and the Far East.

All in all, it made Doyle's annual holiday to Brittany look like a trip to the local pub.

"Morning."

Doyle glanced up. There were no signs of a heavy night on Bodie's face. Those blue eyes were as clear and bright as ever. Maybe Cowley hadn't passed on the file yet? But no. Tucked under a pristinely clad arm was a brown file of similar proportions to the one on the ground between Doyle's feet.

"Morning," he replied non-committedly.

Bodie took a seat opposite him in the corridor, sitting in silence for a couple of moments before he cleared his throat. "It'll er… be good to know I've got a decent bloke at my back."

If he was fishing for compliments, Doyle wasn't in the mood. He nodded and left it at that. Let the man sweat for bit. It wouldn't do him any harm and, considering his background, it was the least he deserved. A chasm of experience and values yawned between them - a distance Doyle wasn't convinced could be bridged.

Cowley's door swung open, revealing their boss who looked as rumpled as Doyle felt and about as well-slept. "In here, gentlemen," he said and stood back.

Doyle let Bodie go in first, watching with amusement as army training came to the fore and Bodie slipped into parade rest, the file still under his arm. For himself, he leaned on the filing cabinet and did his best to relax.

Cowley returned to his desk, sat behind it and took his glasses off, the better to give them a gimlet glare. "I take it you're both up to date with your reading?"

"Sir," Bodie said.

Doyle nodded.

"Any problems?"

The question was levelled at Bodie first. He shifted slightly, glanced in Doyle's direction and then shook his head. "No, sir. It'll be a pleasure to work with him."

"Aye, well, I wouldn't go that far," Cowley replied with the faintest of smiles. "Doyle?"

This was it, the moment where he had to decide one way or the other. If he spoke up now, raised his reservations about Bodie, then Doyle knew Cowley wouldn't force the issue. But was that really what he wanted? Cowley had told him to think about the man he'd already worked with. That man had been good. Very good. The sort of person you wanted watching your back.

Pushing himself upright, he sauntered over to the desk and dropped the file on it. Beside him, Bodie was virtually vibrating with tension. Deserved, Doyle thought, every scrap of it.

"I'll work with him, sir. But I'd like a probation period."

"That's standard in these circumstances. Three months for you both."

Cowley looked at them with raised eyebrows. Bodie nodded and Doyle concurred. If he couldn't keep his hands to himself for three months, then there was no hope for him at all.

"Good." The glasses were back on and files being opened. "Then you're both for the training centre. I suggest you get yourselves over there and start getting your partnership up to par."

***

 

The first day's training was as lousy as Doyle had expected. Despite having worked well together for the past week, this was something else. You didn’t take two individuals and turn them into a single fighting unit without shedding blood and sweat along the way.

Panting with exertion and clamping an arm round his bruised ribs, he reeled back from yet another attack Bodie had allowed through and cursed his new partner roundly. "What the bloody hell you doing? Waiting for a fucking invitation?"

Martin grinned at the pair of them. "No gold-plating here. Right, take a break, lads. I'll see you back here in the morning." Looking as cool and calm as when he arrived, Martin picked up his jacket and sauntered out.

"He's a sadistic bastard."

The ripe bruise on Bodie's cheek proved he had grounds for complaint, but Doyle wasn't feeling sympathetic. "Be a lot nicer if someone pulled his weight."

The glare he got for his pains was icy. "You saying I'm pulling my punches?"

"No. I'm saying you're not bloody pulling your weight." Doyle was sore and furious. Being used as a punching bag by Barry Martin'd do that to a bloke. Snatching up his jacket, he glared at his partner, who was still leaning on the wall. "Doesn't matter how hard you hit him, if you don't get stuck in. We're supposed to be a sodding partnership, not tag wrestlers."

Bodie frowned. "Didn't want to throw you off."

Taking a deep breath, Doyle fought his temper under control. "You done anything like this before? Worked with a partner?"

Bodie shook his head as he reached for own jacket.

"Not in the forces?"

"Squads, mostly. Or patrols in the Regiment. Never fewer than four blokes."

With a strict hierarchy, Doyle supposed. Very different from the type of seamless interaction needed on the streets. "Well, you're gonna have to change your tune. No one's issuing orders anymore. You see an opening, you exploit it. Must have done that before, when you were a merc?"

The atmosphere chilled by several degrees. Bodie shoved his arms into his jacket. "Wondered how long it'd take for you to throw that at me."

"What d'you expect? You makes your choice and takes the consequences, mate."

Leaving Bodie behind, Doyle stalked out of the gym and headed for his car. This was a mistake. He'd gone from lusting after the bloke to wanting to scrape him off his shoe and neither reaction was reasonable. Somehow he had to find a balance. A way of working with the man Bodie was, not the mercenary he had been or the walking wet dream Doyle wanted him to be.

An unexpected hand on his shoulder brought a predictable reaction and only Bodie's fast reflexes saved him from an elbow in the solar plexus. Bodie grinned apologetically and shrugged when Doyle glared at him. "Just wondered if you fancied a pint?"

"What, now?"

"Yeah. Or we could just choose our weapons and meet in Hyde Park. S'what they used to do to settle matters of honour, wasn't it?"

"Nah, Hampstead Heath."

Bodie's eyes widened. "Brings a whole new meaning to pistols at dawn."

Torn between affront and laughter, Doyle chose the easy option and chuckled. "All them guardsmen. Bound to catch on sooner or later."

"Very true." As he was talking, Bodie wandered round to the passenger side of the car. "And you know what they say about guardsmen."

Doyle leaned on the driver's door. "Go on then."

"Let's put it this way," Bodie replied with a grin, "It's not sticks up their arses that make them walk funny."

It was meant to be a throwaway line, but some devilment hijacked Doyle's tongue. "Know that for a fact?"

The only reply was a strange look. Kicking himself for being indiscreet - not likely to aid solid partnership building - Doyle kept his own counsel and got down to the business of driving, aware of Bodie, now silent, crammed in the far corner of the passenger seat.

"Tomorrow then?" Doyle asked as they pulled up outside Bodie's flat.

Bodie started and looked around as though he wasn't sure where he was. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. My turn to pick you… give you a lift, right?"

Bugger it all to hell. "Yeah. Seven thirty should get us into Martin's clutches early enough."

"Right."

Conversation over. And yet Bodie still wasn't moving. Doyle glanced at him and then returned to studying the car in front. Whatever Bodie had to say, he'd probably get around to it, sooner or later.

"You know," Bodie said eventually, blandly, and just as he began to climb out. "Those files don't have everything in them."

Doyle could only stare after him and wonder just what the hell that was supposed to mean.

***

"For god's sake, man, get up and fight." Martin's voice made the windows rattle.

Day two and Doyle was giving Bodie a taste of his own medicine, a tactic that hadn't gone unnoticed if the glare he'd just been treated to was any indication. He gave a slight shrug and turned away from his partner who was gasping for breath on the floor. Had a wicked punch, did Barry, and knew just how to make it hurt without doing anything permanent.

There was a roar behind him and he turned back just in time to see Bodie launch another attack. He was good, there was no doubt about it. The way Barry was having to concentrate proved that, but Bodie's training had been all about killing blows, not disarming, and that's what Barry was concentrating on today. Doyle watched passively as several opportunities for intervention came and went. It was probably petty but it felt right to see Bodie suffering the same agonies he'd gone through the day before.

"Enough," Martin snapped out eventually. "Bodie, go and get some fresh air."

Bodie nodded and, with an impassive backward glance, limped towards the door. About to follow him, Doyle was pulled up by Martin saying, "Not you. I want a word with you."

"Problem?"

"I should say." Martin waited until they were alone before grabbing a towel and swiping it across his face. "What do you think you’re playing at, son? Now him," he gestured towards the door, "he's got an excuse. You haven't. Is there a problem? Something the Major should know about?"

Doyle bristled at the accusation. "No. Nothing I can't handle."

"Then handle it. I don't like seeing a man I respect carry a grudge. I taught you better than that."

He had and he was right. Doyle could only agree. Whatever his personal feelings, they had no place in a training session. Or on the streets. Catching the towel Martin tossed his way, Doyle nodded. "Yeah, okay."

"Good man. Now take the rest of the afternoon and sort this out, whatever it is. I'll see you back here at midday tomorrow and I want to see both of you giving it one hundred percent."

Bodie was outside leaning against the wall, his eyes closed and his head back. Indulging in the last of the summer sun, Doyle supposed, wondering briefly if he missed the African heat. As Doyle wandered over, he opened his eyes.

"What's up next? Running barefoot over broken glass?"

"Nah, they leave that to your old lot. Us mere humans get to wear socks." That garnered a grin. "He's given us the rest of the afternoon off."

"You're kidding?" Bodie perked up for a second, then frowned. "Why? What's the catch?"

"No catch." Taking a spot on the wall a couple of yards away from his partner, Doyle stared up at the sky through narrowed eyes. It was that post-rain clear blue, a beautiful colour. One he'd never been able to get right. "Except he doesn't want either of us playing games anymore."

"Oh." There was a pause.

Doyle risked a glance in Bodie's direction. The pout was back, along with an expression Doyle could only describe as haunted. How old had Bodie been when he became a mercenary? Seventeen, eighteen? At that age Doyle had been working at Rolls Royce and hating every minute of it. Desperately wanting something better than following in his dad's footsteps. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought he'd end up where he was now.

For Bodie on the other hand, this was almost a comedown. Semi-retirement in a way. They were approaching the same situation from diametrically opposed experiences. He still didn't now how the hell they were supposed to find common ground. At least they worked well together in the field. Last week had proved it. For some reason, when something threatened, everything else faded out and they clicked.

So if they could do that, they had to able to get along as people. As partners outside of work. It was time to build some bridges. "Look, it's not you, alright, it's me. We got on fine before I looked at those bloody files."

"Yeah, I suppose they're enough to turn anyone's stomach."

Somehow that wasn't the reaction Doyle had been expecting. Pride, maybe. Possibly bravado and defensiveness. But not shame. Had he misjudged this man so badly?

"Seen worse," he lied.

"Where? London Dungeon?"

Doyle snorted. "Jack the Ripper's an amateur in comparison."

"Oi, I'm not that bad!" Bodie retorted.

"No? Choosy about who you dealt with, were you? Checked their bona fides before you handed the goods over? Made sure they weren't handing them out to kids to kill each other?" Bodie didn't answer. "Thought not. Mind you, that prison can't have been a barrel of laughs."

"One way of putting it." Closing his eyes again, Bodie continued, "Wouldn't have minded so much if I’d actually done what they stuck me in there for."

"So you didn't knife the bloke."

"Not that time. Was framed, guv, honest. Course, the pimp with him was a different story."

A glimmer of the grin was back and Doyle returned it. "Glad to hear. Wouldn't fancy having someone behind me I couldn't trust."

Hope burned briefly in Bodie's eyes. "You do trust me then?"

"I wouldn't have let things get this far if I didn't." Maybe it was time for a bit of honesty. "Look, I'm not saying I approve of some of things you did but we've all got our skeletons and at least you knew when to get out." He shrugged. "Who knows what I'd have done under the same circumstances." He thought back to another young man, blood dripping down his fingers from his own knife, the feeling of euphoria at finally beating the bastards at their own game. No, it wasn't like his own youth had been perfect.

Bodie nodded thoughtfully. "Fair enough." He stood up and stretched, baring just enough belly to set Doyle's heart racing. "So how're we spending our unexpected afternoon of leisure?"

"How about a jog?" Anything that didn't involve close body contact or a chance for personal conversation.

Bodie's face fell. "You related to that sadist or something?"

"Nah, just fancy watching you getting a really decent work out." That was a good start. Nice work, Doyle, what do you do for an encore? Tell him to bend over and grab his ankles?

To cover his embarrassment, Doyle set off at a slow pace, hoping for a bit of time to get his thoughts in order. He needn't have worried. Bodie caught him up almost immediately, shooting past at a flat-out sprint. "Race you to the pub!" he yelled back over his shoulder. "Last one there gets them in."

***

The atmosphere on the third day couldn't have been more different. It was amazing what sharing a couple of beers and some tall tales could do in the way of building a decent working relationship.

Martin noticed the difference as well. After wiping the floor with them for the tenth time, he was happy they were finally pulling together as a team.

"Now that's more like it."

"Easy for him to say," Doyle commented as he let Bodie pull him to his feet. "He's not the one going home to count bruises every night."

"Probably doesn't bruise. Armour plating, I reckon."

Martin was just watching them, grinning that manic grin of his and enjoying every moment. One of these days he'd be up for retirement and Doyle couldn't wait. Even Cowley couldn't find anyone as nasty to replace old Barry.

"So what's tomorrow then?" Doyle asked as he dusted himself down. "Twenty mile hike through shark infested swamps?"

Martin just grinned more broadly. "What d'you mean tomorrow? I've not finished with you today yet. Time to break out the swim suits."

"Ah, no." It couldn't be. Not even Cowley was that much of a bastard.

"Oh, yes. Now run along and get changed. And Bodie, if you've made any plans, now would be a good time to cancel them."

"For the next fortnight, mate, if I were you."

Bodie glanced between the two of them. "Next fortnight? Don't think I'm liking the sound of this."

"Nothing to worry about. You don't mind a little swim, do you?"

As Martin sauntered out, Doyle cursed roundly and kicked out at a pile of gym mats. "Bastard. He swore I'd only have to go through that once."

"Go through what? He said it was just a little swim."

"Just a little swim, he says. Just a little swim. Oh yeah, it's just a little swim, alright. In the Thames. For six bloody hours. With him lurking around the sides ready to kick us back in if we try and crawl out."

***

Wetsuits or no, by two a.m. they were both frozen. Martin wasn't a complete sadist. He didn't expect them to swim for the entire six hours, just two of them. Of course for the other four they were left hanging onto assorted coal barges and buoys, fighting the current and trying to get their breath back.

"F-feel like I'm n-never gonna be w-warm again," Bodie stuttered, his teeth chattering.

Hoisting himself up a bit further so he could transfer his weight to the other arm, Doyle agreed. "Know w-what you mean. First time I did this, it was two days before I could feel me toes again."

"Toes be damned. It's me other bits I'm worried about. I think it's dropped off." Bodie's face was an absolute picture. Doyle chuckled. "I'm serious! Here, warm it up for me."

A hand snaked out, grabbed Doyle's and dragged it under the water. Taken by surprise Doyle yelped and tried to yank it back, losing his grip on the slippery wood in the process and going under. The darkness immediately disoriented him. He spun, kicked and collided with something soft. Bodie! Arms wrapped around him, seeming to tug him closer, and all he could think was that someone was going to see them grappling, see them and get the wrong idea. He lashed out, feeling the softness give a little and shoved himself backwards. Straight into the side of the barge.

For a second he could see nothing but stars. He panicked, thrashing around, needing to get to the surface, needing to breathe, then he realised the stars were moving and he was breathing, his head supported above the water by an arm around his chin.

"B-Bodie?"

"I've got you, sunshine. You okay?"

"Y-yeah. Hit me head." A shiver ran through him, partly cold induced, and partly because Bodie was holding him so close.

"I noticed. Sorry about that. Never expected you to make and song and dance about it, not after the other night."

"The other night?" Doyle's brain was sluggish to function. Too cold and bruised and tired.

"Guardsmen? Reckon I must've got a hold of the wrong end of the stick."

Stick. Doyle sniggered. Apparently being this chilled made his brain regress to childhood.

"You sure you're alright?"

"Fine." How could he be anything else, up to his neck in filthy river water with Bodie's arm wrapped around him? Christ, he sounded like something out of Mills and Boon. Pathetic.

Finally starting to feel more human and less like a bag of wet sand, he struggled to turn and grab the barge again. Bodie tried to hang on to him, then, realising what he was doing, backed off treading water, his hands held high and obviously well away from Doyle's body. "Sorry."

Pissed off and uncomfortable, Doyle snapped back. "Don't!"

"Look, I said I was sorry." Genuine irritability, the first he'd managed to raise from his cool-headed partner.

Doyle wedged his arm over the side of the barge, brought his hands up to his mouth and blew on them. It didn't make much difference, but it did give him time to think. And a chance to look at Bodie, who was turned away, staring at the water. The boat and streetlights cast a shimmering glow over his face, making him look devilish with those arching eyebrows and generous mouth. A downcast, rejected devil. And handsome enough to give Doyle some of the best dreams of his life.

"You weren't wrong," he said after a few moments with only the gentle wash of waves and sounds of distant traffic to break the silence. Bodie glanced over at him, quizzical, perhaps a little hopeful. Doyle sighed, and really dropped himself in it. "About the guardsmen. You didn't read it wrong."

A grin spread over Bodie's face. "Thank Christ for that. Thought I was losing it. Haven't made a mistake like that for years."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't a mistake, was it? I just wasn't expecting to get taken up on it while we were on the job." It was snippy, but deserved, Doyle reckoned. Anything that was between them had to remain strictly personal. Risking more was stupid in the extreme.

"You're right. Bad timing on my part."

"One way of putting it." In the face of such chagrin, Doyle couldn't stay cross. "Just… next time give a bloke a bit of warning before using his hand as a willie warmer, okay?"

The sparkle in Bodie's eyes was obvious even in the dark. "Who says there's gonna be a next time."

"There'd better be. I don't go baring my soul to every Tom, Dick and Bodie, you know."

"See that's where you're going wrong. It's not your soul you're supposed to be baring. Oi!" Bodie surfaced from the ducking, spluttering noisily. "You bastard!"

Doyle swam backwards, rapidly, away from retribution in the form of an ex-merc with a fiendish glint in his eyes and water running down his face.

"Last bridge, you two," Martin's raised voice came out of the darkness. "If you've got enough energy to horse around, I'll expect you there in double quick time."

They exchanged glances and groans, but Doyle was smiling as they set off.

***

Generous to a fault, Martin let them off with only two circuits of the ten-mile assault course on day four, on the strict understanding that they were both in at dawn the next morning. Thus, by five p.m., aching in parts of his body he'd forgotten he had and sniffing with what felt like an incipient cold, Doyle sat, half-dozing, on the slatted bench outside the single grotty shower at the training centre, waiting for Bodie to finish so they could head home.

He was, if was honest with himself, a bit put out with Bodie's attitude. Granted, they'd been too knackered last night after Martin's version of water torture to continue the conversation they'd started, but he'd expected something today. A passing comment, maybe. An invitation, if he was lucky. Just not the same chummy, all-mates-together behaviour that Bodie had been displaying since they first met a fortnight ago. He was sure Bodie'd been genuine, so there had to be another reason. Something he wasn't quite grasping. Something…

"All yours, sunshine."

Doyle glanced over at the door, doing a double take at the sight of his partner wandering towards him wearing absolutely nothing. Not a thread. Not even a modesty-protecting towel.

Clothes, however stylishly cut, could never do that body credit. Stripped off, Bodie was magnificent. Sleek, like a well-fed cat. King of the savannah. Doyle felt like the scabby old alley tom by comparison. He was kidding himself if he thought Bodie was doing more than humouring him.

A thumb swept across the corner of his mouth, dragging his focus back to twinkling blue eyes. "Needing a hanky there, sunshine?"

Furious that Bodie's first allusion to their exchange came clad as a joke at his expense, Doyle jerked his head back. "Was just wondering how you manage to keep up with all that excess baggage," he retorted, giving Bodie a disgusted look. "No wonder you swim like a bloody whale."

The shower gave Doyle a chance to drag his temper back under control. Scrubbing furiously, he berated himself for being such an idiot. It wasn't as though Bodie had actually promised anything concrete. All they'd really done was establish that both of them fancied blokes on occasion. Hardly a declaration of intent. For all he knew, Bodie didn't go for his type at all. Probably preferred something a bit more military. Clean cut, like himself. That was probably it. And not bringing up the conversation was just Bodie's way of letting him know. Putting their relationship on a different footing. A bit of mutual flirting with no follow-through expected on either part. He could live with that.

Pausing, soap gripped hard in one hand, Doyle glared at the tiles. If that was all that was on offer, he'd have to live with it. Somehow.

By the time he was clean, his hair towelled dry and his clothes back on, Doyle felt he'd got it all sorted out. If Bodie wanted mates, then mates was what he would get. He certainly wasn't going to chase if Bodie didn't want to be caught.

The man in question was waiting for him outside. As Doyle stalked past, he pushed away from the wall and came to join him.

"Quick pint?"

"Too early. You never heard of the yardarm?" Course the sun was well over it, but tonight he needed some space to lick his wounded hopes. Mates he could do, just not without a bit of preparation. Unfortunately Bodie wasn't about to be put off so easily.

"How about a meal then?"

"Rather have a night in and curl up with a book." And have a wank with you in the starring role, but you don't want to hear that, do you, mate.

"That, ladies and gents, is the first sign of getting old." Bodie beamed at him over the roof of the car.

Desperately wanting to wrap his hands round that lily-white neck and throttle the life out of the irritating bugger, Doyle breathed deeply and closed his eyes. Mates, he told himself. Mates do things together. They have drinks and meals and watch the match. The match. Liverpool - Derby, tonight, on the box. That would do.

Launching the keys at his new best mate, Doyle took the first step in their budding relationship. "Fine, we'll go to your place. You drive, I'll cook. But you’re supplying the beer."

"Wouldn't dream of doing anything else."

***

"Come on!" Bodie was yelling the screen. "For Christ's sake, ref, offside! Off-bloody-side!"

Doyle took a swig from his can and looked around. Bodie's flat was exactly what he'd expected from an ex-serviceman. Unlike his own cosy crowded home, it bland and impersonal. Even the crockery was the stuff that came with the flat. A side effect of always being on the move, Doyle guessed. That sort of freedom came with a price.

Thinking of it in that light put a different slant on what he'd read in Bodie's personnel file. Fifteen years of globetrotting became half a lifetime of drifting, rootless, from job to job. Though that in itself was hardly a comfort, since there were no guarantees that the drifting had stopped. It was just as likely Bodie would up-sticks and move on again in another couple of years, leaving Doyle to find a new partner. A new mate.

But couldn't the same be said for any number of the squad? It wasn't the sort of job you took if you were expecting to collect your pension.

Banishing that particular set of depressing thoughts, Doyle caught the coffee table with his toes and dragged it closer so he could put his feet up. Bodie'd been right. A decent meal and a beer and he felt much better. Verging on human and looking forward, not only to the final day's training, but to working with Bodie next week. And the week after. Despite his past, Bodie was a good man and would be an excellent partner.

"Did you see that? Had to be at least two yards."

Not exactly cool in the face of bad refs though, Doyle thought with a grin as Bodie flung a cushion at the telly and slumped back on the couch.

"Bloody Paisley. Bring back Shankly. Least he knew what to do with the bloody ball."

"Give the bloke a chance. He's only had the job for a year."

"And not a scrap of silverware to show for it."

Somewhere in the background the final whistle blew, crowds chanted and commentators started their customary dissection of the game. Doyle hardly heard any of it. Bodie's mouth was set in firm sulk, bottom lip protruding. So tempting to just lean over and take a nibble, to discover taste and texture, to see what sounds he made when he was touched.

"`Nother beer?"

"Huh?" Jerked out of his reverie, Doyle stared blankly for a second before glancing down at his half-full can. "Yeah, alright. One more won't put me over the limit."

"You can stay here if you want," Bodie said as he wandered into the kitchen. "Sofa or bed. It's up to you."

And they were back to what the hell was that supposed to mean? Doyle glared the man bending over to peer into the fridge. Those trousers he was wearing left nothing to the imagination and despite the things he'd said earlier, Bodie was very good to look at. In or out of clothes.

"The offer's there."

Doyle snatched the can being waved under his nose. The sofa was a two-seater, not the most comfortable way of spending a night, but would the bed be any better? If Bodie was in it as well and expected Doyle to keep to his own side, it was a nightmare waiting to happen. And if he didn't expect that?

Finishing off his first drink, Doyle wondered just what the fuck he thought he was doing. What either of them were doing. Cowley had stuck them together because he saw the potential. The same potential Doyle himself could see when he looked at things objectively. But having Bodie around didn't encourage objective thought. It encouraged lust and daydreaming and distraction. And that type of thing was going to end with one, or both them, getting killed.

"Maybe this isn't a good idea," he said aloud.

"If you don't want it, just say." Bodie was looking at the beer, but his comment could as easily have been aimed at the offer he'd made. "No need to make a fuss."

Which put the ball firmly back in Doyle's court. He glared at the can, the carpet, the telly rabbiting on in the background. Anything but Bodie, because if he stared at Bodie, rational thought was going to take a back seat and the cost might be everything he'd dreamed of.

"You take yourself much too seriously, Raymond old chap."

The comment was delivered in the sort of mocking tone that elicited an immediate gut-response. Doyle's fist closed around the can, crumpling it and sending a spray of beer ceiling-wards and over his hand. "If that's what you think, then you've no place in CI5," he snarled. "But if you want to go out there and commit suicide, be my guest." His gut twisted at the idea. Less than a week and already he was in over his head. It wasn't just lust, and they couldn't just be mates. Not when there was this potential for so much more.

"I wasn't thinking of doing that. Least, not yet. Thought I’d wait for a few grey hairs before giving the ultimate sacrifice. No point in denying the world my looks and charm until I have to."

Doyle leapt to his feet, slamming the can down on the coffee table. "Christ, don't you take anything seriously?" he yelled. "It's all a bloody joke to you. Life, death, all of it. D'you kill people with a grin on your face as well?"

Silence met that particular remark. After staring hard at the wall for a minute, Doyle turned round, expecting to find a raised eyebrow and amused smile. He didn't. Bodie actually looked sad, sat there on the settee with his hands dangling between his knees and his head down. And for all he'd just said, it didn't seem right. There was something irrepressible about Bodie. Give him the worst of situations and he'd bounce back with a grin and a quip. It wasn't such a bad trait.

"Why d'you do that?" he asked, probably more gently than either of them expected.

Bodie glanced up. His eyes were hollow, empty for a moment, before he frowned. "Do what?"

"Make everything a joke."

A shrug. "Better than the other option."

With those few words, Doyle finally grasped something that had escaped him for years. There'd been coppers Doyle'd worked with in the Met that had taken the absolute worst and turned it all into a joke. Doyle'd never understood it. It always felt as though they were making light of other people's suffering. Now he got it. It wasn't about making light of something, it was about surviving it. It was about being able to look at yourself in the mirror and see yourself, not the faces of the people you’d failed. It was living, not existing.

He sank down next to Bodie on the couch and put his head in his hands. "Sorry," he muttered.

"S'alright," Bodie replied. "That's how it goes. You wanna call it a day?"

Doyle looked askance at him. "What?"

"You, me, being partners. Want to call it off?"

"Fuck, no." Watching Bodie smile was like watching the sun come out. Doyle's lips twitched and he smiled back. "The Cow was right about putting us together. We make a good team…" The 'except' remained silent, but Bodie picked up on it.

"Except for fancying each other."

"Honestly? Yeah. You're distracting."

The smile turned to a full beam grin. "Distracting you am I? We can't have that, mate. Could be dangerous out there on the streets."

"That's just what I was…" Doyle started, then stopped when he spotted the devilment in Bodie's eyes. Bloody wind-up merchant. He was about to say more when Bodie leaned forward and kissed the words away.

It was like being struck by lightening. Or going from zero to sixty in a split second. Giving Bodie no chance to protest, Doyle shoved him back on the couch and straddled him, kissing him back with every ounce of frustration he'd felt for the past fortnight. His dick pressed against his zip, eager to join in and he ground down, moaning when Bodie's hands closed round his bum and dragged him closer. Oh, that was good. So very good.

Fingers found buttons and hot bare skin beneath. Skin he could touch, stroke, rub. A nipple rose under his thumb, hardening fast, and he pinched it gently, getting a jolt when Bodie bucked up against him, whimpering into his mouth.

This was it. This was what he'd wanted since Bodie bloody Bond had walked into the office and raised that damned superior eyebrow at him. To get him here. Flat on his back. And, with any luck, his legs in the air.

But, there was something… Bodie was shoving at him, pushing him away.

"RT. Ray, RT," Bodie was gasping. Doyle frowned at him, almost beyond cognition. "Your RT. Answer the ruddy thing!"

Oh…Reassembling what brain cells he could, Doyle scrambled across the room and tugged his RT out of his pocket. "4-5," he mumbled.

"Emergency call-out. 4-5 and 3-7 to report to 49, Winston Close, Richmond, immediately."

"Christ all-bloody-mighty." Bodie was struggling back into his shirt, fingers fumbling on the buttons.

"Copied and understood, control," Doyle snapped into the RT and then tossed the offending article into the chair. Why now? Why now? They were on training, not standby, and they'd already done their stint for today.

"Better get a move on, mate," Bodie said, grabbing his holster. "Cowley'll hang us out to dry if we're late." He slung his jacket over his shoulder and headed for the door. "See you in the car."

As the door slammed behind him, Doyle cursed and started collecting his own stuff together. Not the easiest task when his dick was still cruising at top speed. "Later, mate. Promise," he muttered and followed his partner down the stairs.

***

Forty-nine Winston Close turned out to be a quiet-looking terrace house in an unremarkable neighbourhood. As they pulled up a little way past the property, Doyle cast a questioning glance over his shoulder at the darkened house. "Reckon this is the right place?" he asked.

Bodie shrugged. "Right address." He picked up the car radio and thumbed the button. "3-7 to control. We've arrived at Little Bighorn but there's no sign of the Indians."

There was silence for a moment and then the RT crackled. "Control to 3-7. Proceed to the rear of the property. 2-5 and 7-3 are waiting for back-up. Acknowledge."

"Acknowledged."

That side of Winston Close backed onto a dark alley making it easy to creep up on the back of the house without being spotted. Doyle levered out a loose panel in the back fence and stood back to let Bodie go first. He couldn't imagine what sort of job was big enough job to warrant interrupting their training, maybe Cowley was short of manpower, but if there was one thing Doyle had learnt since joining CI5, it was not to question orders. If Cowley told you to jump off a cliff, you simply asked him which one and trusted the old man to organise a soft landing.

The back garden of number forty-nine was nowhere near as tidy as the front, as though someone had made a superficial effort to keep up appearances but had given up when faced with this mess. The lawn, what there was of it, was dotted with chunks of scrap metal and an old swing with the seat missing clanked its chains in the slight breeze. Neglected shrubs and brambles straggled in from the edges and nearer to the house, rubbish bags lay ripped open, their contents strewn across a cracked patio.

"Nice," Doyle murmured under his breath as they crept closer.

"Next week's Ideal Home," Bodie whispered back with a grin.

As their eyes met, Doyle felt a surge between them that took his breath. He had to force himself to turn away, deliberately concentrate on the job and not the hot, tempting body crouching beside him. Ten minutes ago, he'd been about to fuck that body. And ten minutes was nowhere near enough time to get his head sorted out. Not now he'd had a taste of what he was missing. Even that slight lapse had made him hard again and he shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease the pressure on his erection.

"You alright?" Bodie asked.

"Fine. Where the hell're 2-5 and 7-3?"

"Haven't a clue."

A light flickered on in one of the back rooms. As one, they froze, waiting for the back door to open. Doyle loosened his gun, ready for anything. After a moment, when nothing had moved, and exchanging a nod, they crept forwards, drawing their guns and keeping low until they were pressed against the wall, one each side of the lighted window. After a second, Doyle peered around the corner and what he saw made his heart leap into his throat. Two masked men, both carrying automatic rifles, had Reggie tied to a chair and, as he watched, one of them smacked the butt of his gun into Reggie's face, sending him smashing into the wall.

"Fuck," Doyle gasped and dodged back out of sight. "They've got 2-5."

Bodie's eyes widened and he took a quick look for himself. His face was pale in the darkness when he was turned Doyle's way again. "Back-up?" he mouthed.

Doyle nodded, took out his RT and hesitated, juggling the radio in his hand. The voices inside were only a low rumble but if someone came out, the telltale crackle of an open channel would be easily identified. He jerked his head in the direction of the back fence, silently indicating his intention to Bodie. Then, keeping close to the edges of the lawn, he made his way carefully back to the hole leading into the alley. Only when he was outside did he sink down to the ground, lean against the fence and call in. "4-5 to control."

"Come in, 4-5."

"Immediate back-up requested. 2-5 is being held by at least two, I repeat, at least two, armed men. No sign of 7-3. Over."

"Sorry, 4-5, no back-up is available at this time. Orders are to monitor the property but make no move to accost the suspects."

"Monitor!" Doyle sputtered, thankful he was far enough away from the house that no one could have heard him. "They're beating the shit out of the poor bastard."

"Repeat. No action must be taken at this time. This is a priority. Do you copy, 4-5?"

Cursing under his breath, Doyle banged his head softly against the fence. "Yeah, yeah. Leave the poor bastard in there, I copy." It was all he could do not to chuck the RT at a nearby goal post after he'd signed off. Seeing 2-5 in there was bad enough. Knowing they had to leave him there was worse. Was a good bloke was Reggie. Another man from the Met and as honest and hardworking as they came. He and his partner had babysat Doyle when he first joined CI5. And now Doyle had to leave him inside that house getting beaten to a pulp by a couple of armed thugs. Christ!

The thud of a door closing came from the rear of the house. Doyle whipped round, peering back up the garden to where he'd left Bodie. Only there was no Bodie there. There was no sign of Bodie anywhere so far as Doyle could see.

Biting back incipient panic, Doyle started searching. Was there a shed or a coalhole Bodie might have started investigating? An external entrance to the cellar? Staying low and silent, Doyle quartered the back of the house. Nothing. Just two windows, one darkened and one lit, and between them the back door, still firmly closed.

What now? Doyle jammed himself back under the dining room window - the one with the light on - and considered his options. Bodie hadn't come past him and there was no way of getting down the sides of the property, which meant there was only one place he could have gone. Inside the house. But had he gone willingly, or with a gun to his head? And in either case, what was Doyle supposed to do now?

A bellow came from inside. Heart back in his mouth, Doyle dodged up and took another glance through the window. Bodie! He almost yelled it, came so close to yelling it he could feel the vibrations in his throat. They had Bodie, and there were more than two of them. One of them had Bodie in a headlock with a gun pressed to his temple. No! It wasn't possible. He wouldn't let it be possible.

Breathing hard, he slid back down the wall and sat, shivering slightly, beneath the window, shooting quick glances up towards where Bodie was being held. He had to do something. But there were three of them and only one of him. Except that wasn't strictly true. There were three of them, but also three agents, possibly four if Morrison was still alive. Granted one of the agents was tied up and another had a gun to his head, but Doyle had the drop on them. He had the element of surprise. If he could get inside the house and pull the fuse without being caught, then maybe the confusion would give Bodie a chance to get free, and in the dark, they might be able to take down the others between them.

It was risky. And Control had said to monitor the situation. But that was before Bodie had been taken. Now there wasn't time to waste. And no time to call in extra back-up, especially if they were likely to tell him to wait. If he was going to do this, then he had to do it now. There was no point hanging around for the cavalry, he was the cavalry.

Riding to the rescue turned out to be ridiculously easy. The back door eased open silently and, gun ready, Doyle edged around the corner. The kitchen in front of him was empty, dark, and there were only two doors, one presumably to the cellar and one into the rest of the house. Both were closed. Logic determined that the narrow one in the far corner had to be the cellar door, hopefully with the fusebox behind it. Listening carefully, head pressed against the wood, Doyle heard not a sound. He tried the handle, and again the catch opened easily. He pushed the door gently. It swung open about eight inches and then bounced back. Inside, something dragged across the floor with what sounded like a sharp intake of breath.

He froze, gun poised, but there was no further movement. Nothing.

He tried again and again the door bounced back. This time he was sure he heard it. A grunt. Urgent. Guttural, as though the person speaking was gagged. Morrison? But why was he where the cellar steps should be?

Unless this wasn't a cellar, but a pantry.

Idiot. Of course. A house this age, even a terrace, was bound to have a pantry.

Tucking his gun back into its holster, he barged the door back as far as it would go and pushed inside. "Morrison?" he whispered to the man crammed into the small space. It wasn't much bigger than a cupboard and far too dark to be certain of an ID, but he couldn't think of anyone else it could be since both Reggie and Bodie were in the dining room. "Hang on a minute, mate, lemme get you sorted."

His penknife took care of the cables round Morrison's ankles and nails the tape across his mouth. As soon as he was free, Morrison wheezed, "Ray, good to see you, son. Or feel you, anyway. It was getting a bit lonely tucked in here on me ownsome."

"Bet it was. Can you stand?" Doyle helped him up, aware of the way Morrison winced when his right leg touched the ground. "Injured?"

"Leg. Crease. Should be alright so long as you're not talking a marathon."

"Nah, I leave that up to Barry."

They staggered back into the kitchen, Doyle supporting a good deal of Morrison's weight. Doyle eased Morrison down and knelt beside him to investigate his injury. There was nowhere near enough light to do a proper check, but Doyle could feel a goodly amount of wet stickiness on Morrison's thigh around the rip in his trousers. So much for having an extra pair of hands. Now three of the four agents were incapacitated. The sensible thing to do would be to get the hell out of there. With Morrison's report on the situation, they'd stand a good chance of getting the others out in one piece once back-up arrived. Unless the gunmen decided to do away with Reggie and try their luck with Bodie instead.

"What's the set-up," he asked. "Just the three of them?"

Morrison nodded. "They've got Reggie in the dining room. Can't tell you much else. The blighters didn't give me a chance to look around. Where's your other half?"

"Keeping Reggie company."

The thud of a door closing nearby sent both of them to the floor, Doyle covering the injured agent as he trained his gun on the entrance to the kitchen. But no one joined them. There was just the sound of heavy footsteps - two people, Doyle thought - moving through the hallway and up the stairs.

Doyle fought an internal battle. The image of the gun held to Bodie's head was engrained on the insides of eyelids. He should walk away. But he couldn't. He just couldn't. Neither could he wait for reinforcements that might not arrive in time.

Pointing Morrison towards the back door, he said, "Take my RT and head for the fence. When you get there, call for back-up and let control know what's going on."

Morrison nodded, taking the RT when Doyle handed it over. "What are you gonna do?"

"Ride to the rescue, mate. Just call me the Lone Ranger."

A manic grin creased Morrison's face. "Would've thought Lassie with hair like that."

"Ha bloody ha. Now get a move on."

He waited until Morrison vanished into the shadows before closing the backdoor and considering his next move. If there was no cellar, then the fuse box was probably in the hallway, which effectively put the kibosh on his first idea. He still had the element of surprise but he needed more. Something that would attract at least one of the men from the dining room without raising their suspicions, to split the gang and even up the odds.

The only thing that looked even slightly useful was the telephone on the old dresser by the door. Doyle closed his eyes and tried to remember if he'd seen an extension in the dining room. He didn't think so, but there were no guarantees that he was right. Or that the gunmen would answer it even if it rang. But it was worth a go.

One-seven-four set the phone to ring back. Doyle replaced the handset and hurried across the kitchen to the pantry. Concealed behind the door, he'd be out of casual sight and if luck was with him…

The jangle of the phone sent his heart into overdrive. Talk about strung out. He'd never been this bad on an assignment before. Of course he's never had to do anything like this before either. This sort of op was given to partners, not single agents or those with temporary pairings. Doyle's first six months with CI5 had consisted of alternating bouts of boring stakeouts and pulse-revving raids with the rest of the lads.

A door slammed, footsteps thundered on the stairs and there was the sound of raised voices. Doyle held his breath as the floorboards creaked and a dark figure appeared around the corner, reaching for the telephone.

"Yes?" The gunman was standing with his back to the room, his rifle held across his chest. There would be no better opportunity.

Doyle was behind him in five silent steps. He placed the barrel of his handgun to the man's head and released the safety. "Don't even think about moving," he breathed.

The gunman froze for a second and then relaxed minutely. Doyle waited for the attack but it never came. Instead the gunman nodded, slowly and carefully.

"Gun on the dresser."

Equally slowly, the man complied, moving with painstaking care. Once the rifle was safely down, Doyle spun him round and stripped off his balaclava. The gunman flinched as a few hairs came with it. He was an older man, in his fifties, maybe, with hair that was visibly white in the dark room. And there was something familiar about his face. Something Doyle couldn't quite put his finger on.

Taking a step back, Doyle gestured towards the pantry with his gun and followed the man as he walked over to it. The cable and tape that had secured Morrison did the trick for the new hostage and in a matter of minutes, Doyle was one assailant down and one gun better off.

Holstering his Walther, he checked the rifle for ammunition, pleased to feel the weight of a full clip. One more advantage. Now he just had to get rid of the other two gunmen and free Reggie and Bodie. And he'd have to move quickly. They'd already be wondering where their friend had got to.

The door to the hallway creaked a little as it opened. Doyle paused, foot raised and pulse thundering in his throat as he listened for any sign that he'd alerted the other men. There was nothing. Just a low buzz of voices coming from the dining room. Except…

Doyle cocked his head. The stairway rose on his left and from upstairs came the distinct sound of someone moving around. That posed a problem. Whether to check out the first floor before the dining room, thereby potentially raising the alarm with those downstairs, or to opt for the dining room first and leave himself open to someone coming up behind him. Either was dangerous. In an ideal world, he'd have his partner to work with and they could cover each other.

Taking a step closer to the dining room door, Doyle listened carefully.

"Tell us what the codes are," someone was saying.

"Fuck off." The reply was muffled, but definitely not Bodie. He could be the one upstairs. Maybe they meant to interrogate him later. But, since at least one man had come back down after taking him up there, that left the odds upstairs in Doyle's favour.

Decision made, Doyle headed for the staircase, testing each tread gingerly as he climbed. A single loud creak and everything would be down round his ears. But, unusually for such an old house, the stairs were sound and when he reached the top, no one had raised the alarm. He stopped, listening again for footsteps. There. From the front of the house. Someone keeping watch over the street, perhaps?

The landing was about twenty-foot long and split-level. Working silently, Doyle opened each door to check the rooms. Two bedrooms at the back, both empty. Completely. Not even furniture. It looked as though forty-nine Winston Place was between owners. The bathroom. Nothing.

Only the front room left to check. Satisfied that he was as secure as he could hope to be, Doyle paused outside the front bedroom door. Footsteps, again. Pacing backwards and forwards across the room. That was good. That gave him a chance to catch whoever it was off guard.

He waited until the steps reached the closest point to him, took a deep breath and shoved the door open. It happened almost too fast to register. He got a quick glimpse of a bed with what could be a body in it, before the attack came. Into his side, bowling him over and sending him crashing to the ground, the rifle skidding from his hand. For a second he was stunned, then he fought back. A blow to the side of his assailant's head, a knee up, sharp, between the man's legs. An oomph of air whistled over his face and he rolled them, coming up ready to deliver the killing blow, only to find himself staring down at Bodie.

"What the hell?"

"Jesus Christ!"

They spoke simultaneously, obviously as shocked as each other. Doyle, his hand still pressed on Bodie's chest, glanced around for the other man who'd been in there. No one. Just a coil of rope near the bed, which, now he looked at it properly, didn't have a body in it, only heaped up pillows.

For a moment they lay there, frozen, waiting for the slamming of doors, the thud of footsteps, certain discovery. Nothing. Christ, this lot were crap.

"Was that you walking around like a herd of bloody elephants?" Doyle hissed at the man beneath him.

"Elephants!" Bodie retorted, then added more quietly. "I was thinking. Always walk when I think."

"Well that'd explain the pained look on your face."

"No, that's courtesy of the knee in the 'nads. I tell you, if you were thinking of taking up where we left off, you've ruined your chances for a couple of nights."

The similarity of their position now to the one they'd been in just a short hour ago slammed into Doyle like a sledgehammer. Apparently it hit Bodie the same way. The heartbeat under Doyle's hand, which had started to calm, picked up again, and Bodie's chest heaved. "Can't do this here," Bodie whispered. "Not on the job, remember."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." He might have said it, but Doyle still couldn't bring himself to move. Not with Bodie between his legs, that heat, that muscle, that hardness nudging up against his own.

It took a huge effort of will to tear himself away, but he managed it, rolling onto his own back and lying there staring at the ceiling to try and find something resembling control. This was bloody ridiculous. And he had to put a stop to it.

He glanced sideways to see Bodie with his eyes closed and a pained expression on his face. They both had to stop it. This wasn't a problem either of them could fix alone. Neither was this the time to address it. The odds were now even. Two functional agents versus two gunmen. With Reggie somewhere in the middle, hopefully still alive and swearing like a trooper.

"Better get a move on," he said, getting to his feet and holding out a hand. Bodie grabbed it and he hauled him up. "You take the rifle." Bodie nodded and leaned down to pick it up, flinching as he did so.

"You hurt?" Doyle asked, suddenly concerned.

Bodie stood up, adjusting his trousers. "Nothing that won't go down."

There was no answer to that. Doyle turned away, heading for the door.

"Hang on a second," Bodie whispered from right behind him. "We got a plan for this?"

"I was thinking creep down the stairs and take `em by surprise."

"What happened to the one who answered the phone?"

Shit. In all the excitement, Doyle had forgotten him. "He's in the pantry. I got Morrison out and sent him for back-up."

"So maybe we should sit tight?"

An image of Reggie being smashed round the face with a rifle butt sprang into Doyle's mind. "How can you say that?" he hissed. "You saw what they were doing to him."

Bodie shrugged and tossed the rifle from hand to the other. "He didn't look too bad when I was in there. Reckon they're a bunch of bloody amateurs, this lot."

Amateurs. Amateurs. The word slammed into Doyle's head and with it came the face of the man in the pantry. Grey hair, fifties, a bland sort of face, but one he remembered all the same. He was one of the civilians that Barry Martin trained! An ex-Para sergeant who wanted to keep his hand in. But what the hell was he doing here? And with training from Martin, why had he given up so easily? Unless…

"Bodie?"

"Yeah?" Bodie paused, his hand on the doorknob and glanced back over his shoulder.

"The bloke who brought you up here, was there anything familiar about him?"

"In what way?"

"In a way that suggested this could be, say, a training exercise?"

The expression on Bodie's face went from confused through thoughtful and rested on determined. "It was that sodding sadist," he said. "I knew I recognised that aftershave." He spun away from the door, strode over to the window, hauled back the curtain and slipped the clip out of the rifle, something that Doyle hadn't done downstairs. "Blanks," he said after a second of holding them up to the orange light streaming in to the room.

"What about…?" Doyle started. There was no point in finishing. He hauled his own gun out and checked it. The blunt nosed cartridges he found bore no resemblance to the ones he'd loaded up that morning. "Fuck," he breathed. "Martin must have switched `em while we were on the assault course."

"Probably." Bodie's voice carried a hard edge as he reloaded and prepped the rifle. "Right," he said, "Let's go show these bastards what we can do."

"Hold it, sunshine," Doyle interjected, sticking out his hand and halting Bodie mid-stride, halfway to the door. "We might know this is a training exercise, but it is still a training exercise and if we bugger it up, they'll just come back with something twice as nasty next time."

Bodie's nostrils flared and for a second, Doyle thought he was going to barge on past him. Then he spun away and strode back over to the window, anger showing in every tight muscle. "The bastards. How could they fucking do it? This isn't a game, I could have bloody killed one of them. And I wouldn't have needed a gun to do it. That's what I'm trained for. Not playing fucking cops and robbers!"

Hoping that the house was reasonably soundproof, since otherwise the team downstairs would know everything by now, Doyle went over to his partner and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Look mate, d'you really think they'd take that much of a risk? The bloke downstairs didn't so much as raise his voice when I caught him. Not a peep. And I happen to know he's ex-Paras. Bodie, they know what they're doing, okay? No one would have ended up dead."

Bodie continued glaring out of the window, his shoulder tense where Doyle touched him. He had the look of a man in turmoil, trying to contain everything. It hurt to watch, but equally Doyle couldn't turn away. After what felt like forever, Bodie relaxed fractionally and his lips curled into a grim smile. "Would have served the bastard right if I had killed him," he said and then shook off Doyle's hand and turned back to the door. "Reckon we'd better get a move on or they'll cotton on to our dastardly plan."

"What plan was that?" Doyle asked with a grin.

"The one when we go down there and take `em apart by the book."

***

The plan worked. Fifteen minutes later, Martin and his friend were disarmed and locked in the pantry. Both of them still wore their balaclavas and since Reggie didn't see fit to come clean about the nature of the op, there was no reason to let them out. Doyle saw it as just revenge for the pain they'd put him through. Quite what Bodie thought, he didn't know, but there was one hell of a malicious grin on his partner's face as he closed the door behind Martin's back.

"Now what?" Doyle asked as they headed back for the dining room to untie the 'hostage'.

"Call it in and wait for back-up."

"Which will not be necessary, will it, gentlemen." Cowley appeared at the front door and flipped on the light switch bathing everything in brightness. "How long did it take you to work it out?"

"Ah." Doyle glanced at his partner for help. Bodie just shrugged. "Upstairs, sir. I recognised one of Barry's men."

"Och, at late as that? There were clues aplenty if you'd bothered to look for them. But even so, it was good work, the pair of you. Now where's Martin?"

Bodie grinned. "In the pantry, sir. We didn't want to take any chances letting him run loose."

Doyle might have been mistaken since Cowley was turning away, but there seemed to be genuine amusement in the reply. "Well, you'd better go and let him out, laddie. He's got a final day's training to organise for the pair of you."

***

They were allowed to leave as soon as Martin and his friends, Ginger and Andrews, were out of the pantry. With Martin's congratulatory smacks on the back still tingling, they headed to the pub for a quick pint before last orders and a chance to unwind from what had turned out to be a hectic evening. Not that the evening was over. Doyle still meant to address the issue of their mutual attraction and he had no idea how Bodie was going to react.

He waited until they'd each had a pint and chaser before broaching the subject. "I've been thinking," he said.

Bodie glanced up, his top lip frothy from the head of his fresh beer. "Wondered what the smell of burning was."

"We can't carry on like this. That… episode in the bedroom. It's stupid. We're gonna end up dead."

"So we shag like bunnies and get it out of our systems," Bodie said with a shrug.

Talk about a complete turnaround in positions. Twenty-four hours ago Doyle would have been overjoyed to hear those words, but now they made him cringe. "Or we just forget it. Accept there's an attraction but don't-"

"Consummate it?" Bodie's voice went up along with his eyebrows. "You gonna start wearing sackcloth and ashes an'all?"

"Eh?"

The pint glass hit the table with enough force to spill beer over the edge. "It's the sudden martyr complex."

"What the hell are you on about?"

"You, mother superior. Fancy making your mind up exactly what it is you do want, `cause I'm not sure I can keep up with the hot and cold running moods?"

Doyle glanced around. Thankfully no one in the quiet side-street pub was listening in. "It's not like that!" he hissed.

"Isn't it? Seems that way to me. One minute you're crawling all over me and the next your legs are clamped together tighter than a convent girl outside Sunday school."

He had a point, Doyle admitted to himself, but that was no reason not to stick to his guns. "We came close to blowing that op," he replied. "Too bloody close. If I hadn't been thinking about you, getting distracted by you-"

"Ray, just hang on."

"What?" There was a distinct petulance in his voice that even Doyle found horribly unattractive.

"It not exactly a typical situation, is it. I mean, how often are we gonna end up lying all over each other an hour after we'd been about to having it off for the first time. I dunno about you, but I was half a second away from popping when that call came through and I bet you anything you like that if we'd manage to finish, getting distracted wouldn't have been a problem. Anyway, no harm done."

"That's not the point." Doyle shook his head, and rapped a knuckle on the table between them. "This might only have been a training op, but if it'd been real, those few seconds up in the bedroom might have made the difference between life and death. For Reggie, if not for us."

The situation seemed clear to Doyle. Not so to Bodie, apparently. "Could say the same for the tantrum I threw. If anything held us up it was that, not a quick grope on the floor."

"You're not getting it! What you said, everything you said, was about the job. It was part of it, things we both had to take into account." Temper flaring out of control, Doyle did his best to keep his voice down. "And that 'quick grope on the floor' as you call it, wasn't anything to do with the op at all. That was personal and personal's got no place on the job."

"Fine, so we keep it off the job. I already said I had no plans to jump you in Cowley's office, so where's the problem?"

This was shaping up to be a full scale row, one that Doyle had no intention of carrying on in public, however incurious that public might be. "Drink up," he said, waving at Bodie's nearly untouched pint. "Let's take this outside."

Outside became the car and the car progressed to Doyle's flat. Locking the door behind them, Doyle wondered why he'd let Bodie invite himself back here. It was getting late, nearly midnight, and though they didn't have to be in until nine for the debriefing, they'd already said everything that needed saying. All he needed was for Bodie to accept it.

"Coffee or something stronger?" Bodie was asking as Doyle wandered into the living room and tossed his keys onto the sideboard.

"Coffee, definitely. I want to at least be able to see Barry in the morning."

Bodie pursed his lips and then nodded. "You're right and one of him is more than enough. Right, where's the kettle?"

"Through here." Doyle gestured to the minute annex that passed for a kitchen in this place. "And while you're there, take a butchers in the fridge. There should be some bread and cheese."

"Your wish in my command," Bodie replied with an ironic bow. At least the pair of them had regained their temper on the way home. Now if they could just put the attraction behind them, there was a chance they could make the partnership work.

Doyle sighed, slipped off his jacket and laid it over the back of the chair. His holster was next and he took the gun out and put it on the coffee table. Blanks. Martin had exchanged his bullets for blanks. Doyle groaned and dropped his head in his hands. Talk about stupid. If it hadn't been a training op, he and Bodie would rightly be dead. They should have checked their guns before they went out on that call, but both of them had had other things on their minds. Yet another reason to call a halt to this.

"Pickle?" Bodie called through from the kitchen.

"Yeah. And stick a couple of sugars in the coffee," Doyle answered amicably. He needed to keep his temper. He needed to find some way of getting Bodie to agree to his proposition.

"Here, get that inside you."

A sandwich with the proportions of a doorstep landed in front of him and he grabbed the plate to stop it sliding off the table. Luckily the coffee made a more graceful landing. "Thanks. Need this."

"You and me both."

Doyle listened to the appreciative sounds of Bodie eating happily, and smiled. It took him back to their first week together. Apart from work, food had been the only neutral subject they could discuss without revealing too much personal information, and at the time, Doyle had been too interested in the mouth than in the words it was saying. Which, he realised, was no longer the case. Being forced into Bodie's company on a daily basis had stopped the worst of the daydreaming. Now if he could just stop the rest of it.

"What's got the old brain cells whirring, then? Must something nice with that expression on your ugly mug." The final bite of the sandwich vanished into Bodie's waiting mouth. "Or have you decided to give it all up and become a monk?" he added past the bread.

"It's better than your solution," Doyle snapped back. "If we did it your way, we'd already be in bed. And where would that leave us?"

Bodie smiled beatifically. "Very happy, I would think."

"Yeah, right up to the point where we're distracted on the job again and one of us gets his head blown off."

"C'mon Doyle, there's no guarantee that won't happen anyway, so why not give it a go? At least we'll be having fun while you're feeling guilty and you never know, it might work."

Doyle threw up his hands in despair. Was there no saying 'no' to this man? Apparently not. Bodie had him by the hand and was pulling him out of the chair. "What about me sandwich?" Doyle asked in a last ditch attempt to distract him, pointing to where his coffee and cheese and pickle still waited.

"You can eat afterwards, Raymond, old son. Right now there's something else I want to put in that mouth."

This is a mistake, Doyle thought even as he let Bodie drag him into the bedroom. I'm going to regret this. We're going to regret this. I'll never survive being on stakeout in the car with him…"

"Ray?"

Doyle tore his mind back to the present and fell into Bodie's eyes instead. They really were a remarkable shade of blue, at least in this light. Sometimes, in daylight and when he was pissed off, they looked grey, stormy, but right now, they were deep and dark. Lustful.

"Ray, are we going to do something here apart from stare into each others eyes?"

All Doyle could do in reply was close his own and lean in. Thankfully Bodie obliged him, drawing him closer, gently this time as though he was afraid that Doyle would panic, finally do a runner. But Doyle knew he wouldn't. Not now. If he was going to say no, the place to do it would have been in the living room, not here with a fur covered bed right behind him and Bodie pressed close to his front. Not here with Bodie's arms circling his waist, and hands stroking and soothing. Not here with Bodie's taste beneath his lips and Bodie's heat warming away all his worries.

"Mmm," he murmured as Bodie kissed a path down his neck. The kisses paused and the contact vanished. Doyle opened his eyes to find Bodie glowering at him, though Doyle got the feeling it was completely faked.

"Is that the best you can do?"

"Huh?"

"Stand there and purr. A bit of reciprocation wouldn't go amiss, mate."

"Reciprocation?" That bit of the devil, which had been sorely missing for the past hour or so, raised its head. "Oh no. You were the one who said we had to do this, so you're the one who gets to all the work." Hoping the bed was as close behind him as he thought, Doyle raised a hand to his forehead and dropped backwards, the very image of a fainting maid, or more likely a disintegrating sand castle, but the idea was good. He peered up at Bodie through his eyelashes, not wanting to miss the expression on his partner's face, and moaned melodramatically, "Egad, sir, won't you have your wicked way with me. I am consumed by the very worst of vapours."

Bodie's mouth dropped open. Got the bugger! All his horsing around this week while Doyle was taking things seriously. Now the boot had well and truly changed feet.

"What's up? Too much for you?" Doyle grinned. A floundering Bodie, now that had to be a first. "Maybe this'll help." The top button of his jeans popped open under his fingers. Bodie's gaze shot crotchwards and he closed his mouth, swallowing hard. "More?" A nod. Doyle obliged, clicking his zip down a millimetre at a time. He took it halfway, enough to expose the head of his erection and no more, before turning his attention to his shirt, running his fingertips up underneath the well-worn cotton, first to his navel then further to circle his nipples, which peaked hard.

Bodie's gaze followed, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "More," he croaked and began an abortive step forward.

"Buttons?"

Another nod. For Doyle, Bodie's reactions were fascinating. If their situations had been reversed, he knew he'd be doing the same thing, but to see Bodie as turned on for him was one hell of a buzz. The trouble was, it did nothing to quash his concerns. In fact, it raised them all over again, far enough to give him second thoughts.

He forced himself to calm down, to think rationally. They couldn't. Shaking his head, he sat up, rezipping his flies. "This isn't gonna work."

"Wha-What?"

"It's a mistake. Look at the state of you." Bodie was blinking at him, like someone had suddenly shone a spotlight in his eyes. "It was bad enough when it was just me acting like a randy teenager. If you start an'all, we really will both end up dead." And he wasn't willing to risk that. He stood up, pushing Bodie aside and would have left the room if Bodie hadn't grabbed his arm and spun him round.

Anger had crowded the mindless heat of lust from Bodie's eyes. "You don't just stop."

Doyle met his expression with fury of his own. Couldn't he see that this was for both of them? One of them had to be sensible here. "Unless you're more of a prat than I give you credit for, I do just stop. Bodie, it's too dangerous, it isn't going to work."

Bodie looked away with a wince. His breathing was harsh, painful to watch. Doyle reached out and touched his arm, flinching himself when Bodie shrugged him off violently. "I'll see you tomorrow, alright?"

"Just go, will you?" Bodie didn't look at him. "Get the fuck out of here."

But when it came to it, he couldn't. He couldn't leave Bodie like this. Not to mention that Martin would take one look at them tomorrow and they'd be lucky not to be thrown out on their ears. Partners who couldn't stand to look at each other were useless. Which just went to prove that he shouldn't have said yes in the first place. He shouldn't have led Bodie on and then turned it around. He had to stop blowing hot and cold, make up his mind and stick to it. He should walk out of there. But he couldn't.

Because, maybe Bodie was right. Maybe doing it would take away the allure. They did say that forbidden fruit was the sweetest.

"Bodie?"

Shoulders hunched, Bodie was still turned away, perched on the edge of the bed where he'd sunk when Doyle announced he was going. "You still here?"

"Yeah, and I'm not going anywhere."

"Make you bloody mind up."

"I have." Doyle took a step forwards. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I know… I know I'm messing you about, but we've gotta get this sorted. Barry'll have our guts for garters if we turn up like this."

"No worries. Tell `im it won't work. Because it won't."

"And rob the squad of a good team? We could be a good team, Bodie."

Bodie sighed and glanced up briefly. "I can't keep doing this, Ray," he said. "Either we pack it in now, or you come to bed, but no more messing around."

"Okay."

"Okay?" Anger flared again. "Just like that? No more breast beating and guilt trips?"

"Nope."

"For how long this time? I'm supposed to take your word for it and wait for you to tie my balls in knots again ten minutes later?"

Christ, he really had buggered it up this time. "I said I was sorry."

"And that's supposed to make it all better." Bodie got to his feet, frustration making him seem twice the size he normally was. Doyle retreated. "You really are a piece of work, you know that, mate." The final word was spat out like it was poisoned. This was a side of Bodie Doyle hadn't yet seen. It made the file he'd read completely believable. Except, according to the records, that man had been a cold emotionless killer, whereas the one in front of him now was anything but emotionless. Or cold.

In fact he was hot. Overheated. Passion fuelled, if Doyle was any judge, and hiding it behind a façade of rage. Desire and hurt barricaded behind angry words and flashing eyes. But it boiled off him, scorching in its intensity. It was as though Doyle had managed to touch something that Bodie felt he had to protect, some unacknowledged vulnerability. Like stamping on someone's toes on the way to the bar. You might not have done it deliberately but that wasn't going to stop the pint of beer ending up over your head. And the way Bodie was looking, it was going to be more than a pint coming down on him.

Backing away again, Doyle held up a hand. "I'm not fighting about this. I want you."

"I know that. I knew that the first time you turned those bloody come hither eyes on me! What I don't get is what the hell you're playing at?"

"Nothing." Doyle paused, breathing deeply. This couldn't go on and it was up to him to stop it. "I'm not playing. I never meant to. I couldn't. Not with you." To back up his words, he moved into Bodie's space, reaching out and placing his hands on his partner's shoulders. "I'm here and I'm not going anywhere. We finish it now."

"About fucking time."

They came together with a violence that came from denial, desperation, and from what Doyle knew somewhere deep inside, was fear. Bodie was wrong, this would solve nothing, because he knew that once given he would never be able to pull himself wholly away from Bodie again. And he would be empty, and he would be alone and one day he would die from it. But he needed it, and he would have it, even if it got them both killed.

***

 

They passed training with flying colours. Top scores across the board. Martin was chuffed to bits and even Cowley offered a brief smile as he welcomed them aboard as his newest team. But while they celebrated together at the pub that evening, losing themselves in the haze of smoke and music long after the rest of the lads had gone home, something tangible had gone from their relationship. The easy camaraderie, maybe. Doyle was careful to keep himself to himself, to keep his eyes blank. No more come-hither. No casual brushes against each other, or joking innuendo. And he had no choice but to watch as the shutters slammed down behind Bodie's eyes, concealing all that passion behind plate glass.

At the end of the night, after the others had staggered off propped up on shoulders only slightly less drunk, he stood in the pub car park watching his new partner wander off home alone and felt the heavy pull of duty done.

But they could be mates.

***

"4-5."

"All agents, priority, A3. 121 Mortlake High Street. Assistance needed."

Doyle frowned. That was less than half a mile away from where they were. "Control, 4-5. I'm just round the corner with 3-7."

"Acknowledged 4-5."

Bodie was on his feet before Doyle signed off. They sprinted for the car and Doyle put his foot down, weaving through traffic and jumping lights with impunity.

"A3. That's agent down," Bodie was saying. "Wonder who it is?"

They didn't have to wonder for long. Screeching to a halt outside 121 - a bookies - they were greeted by a pale yet calm police officer. "There was a shooting, we don't know who or why. One of your men's been shot," he said as they hurried back into the building. "Another went after him, but he's on his own."

It was Morrison. Pushing all personal thoughts aside, Doyle knelt and pressed his fingers to the man's neck. There was only the faintest of pulses and his lips were flecked with blood.

"Which direction?" Bodie asked at the same moment as Doyle said, "How many?"

"One man, but he's armed. Out the back, right along the river bank."

Doyle didn't need telling twice. With Bodie on his heels, he sprinted out of the back of the shop and down along the shoreline. There was no sign of either Reggie or the bloke he was chasing.

"Hang on!"

"What!" Annoyed at being stopped, Doyle whirled round on his partner. Bodie was staring ahead along the shoreline to where a railway line and bridge crossed the river. Doyle squinted in the same direction and could just make out two figures, one a dozen yards or so ahead of the other, running along the tracks.

"Christ. They're nuts," he said as they set off again.

Bodie was keeping pace easily and, as they approached the near end of the bridge, he called out, "Need back-up for the other side."

"Yeah, except that's Duke's Meadow over there and if he makes it that far, we've lost him."

"He's not going to."

Again Bodie was looking ahead and Doyle could see why. Hurtling onto the bridge at the other end was an Intercity. All they could do was watch as Reggie threw himself over the edge of the parapet to avoid the oncoming train. The bloke he was chasing wasn't so lucky. As the train rattled past them, Doyle caught a glimpse of the shocked driver and the body still smashed into the front of the engine. Not a pretty way to go. Even for a cop killer.

The last of the carriages drew past them, the train slowing down with a squeal of brakes and showers of sparks off its wheels. Someone would have to sort it out, but right now there was Reggie to worry about.

Doyle ran onto the bridge, hoping against hope that Reggie had managed to hold on. It was one hell of a drop down into the river and it was deep and vicious at this point. The undertow would drag him under within seconds.

"Reggie!" Hanging over the edge of the railings, Doyle searched the water and the structure, and then relaxed. A bit, anyway. Reggie wasn't dead, just stuck, clinging onto the iron framework with one arm and one leg. "Oh, there you are, mate," he managed calmly, "Thought we'd lost you."

Reggie glared up at him. "Any chance of a hand?"

"Dunno." Bodie leaned over the railings beside him, "What d'you reckon, Doyle? Seems like he could manage a little climb like that."

"I'll bloody climb you, Bodie," the dangling agent retorted.

"Now, now. There's no need for foul language."

All the time he was speaking, Bodie was stripping off his jacket and holster. When he started on his belt, Doyle looked at him askance. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Getting ready to dangle you over the edge, sunshine. Unless, you think you can reach him from here?"

Since Reggie was at least six feet below them, there wasn't much chance of that. Still, Doyle wasn't altogether happy about the idea. "You sure you can do this? We can wait for back-up."

"No, we can't," Bodie replied, his expression grim.

Doyle took another glance over the edge and… bugger it all, Bodie was right. What he'd missed the first time was the reason why Reggie was only using one arm and leg. In those last few seconds, he'd been shot. And badly, by the looks of it.

"Right." Bodie was lying flat on the ground, half over the edge, his jacket acting as padding for his chest. His belt was lashed to one of the bridge struts and wrapped tightly around one fist. "You start climbing and give him a hand up. I'll grab him and haul him the rest of the way."

Doyle did as he was told, shinning down the thick girders until he was just above Reggie. The next stage was going to be more difficult, taking some delicate manoeuvring to get below the injured man to support him. The closer Doyle got, the more worried he became. Reggie looked bloody awful, as pale as a ghost, with blood staining half his thigh.

"Stay with me, mate," Doyle called out. "How about you tell me what you were on to?"

"Just kids. Got a tip-off they were laying in arms, but they weren't."

"That a fact? Right, Reggie, lean back against me, mate. Good man." Taking Reggie's weight was the easy bit. Shifting him upwards was harder. "Can you reach up? Use your good arm. Bodie? Can you grab him?"

"Bit further."

Doyle braced himself with one arm wrapped firmly around a strut, and shoved Reggie upwards. "No light-weight, are you. Come on, up you go." Another six inches. That was all they needed. But they weren't gonna get it like this. He needed both hands free. "This isn't gonna work," he called out.

"Okay. Get back up here and we'll try something else."

After checking Reggie was still secure, if getting a bit shaky, Doyle clambered back past him, grabbed Bodie's hand and was swung up the last couple of feet.

"Think you can reach him if I hang on to your legs?" Bodie asked as Doyle rubbed the sweat from his hands.

"Probably. Now that he's a bit higher." He gave his partner a sceptical look. "It'll mean you hanging on to the pair of us. Think you can do it?"

Bodie peered over the edge and then grinned at him. "Probably."

"Better make that certainly, mate. I've no intention of going for a swim."

"And I packed me swimming hat specially."

Doyle chuckled. Bodie could make the worst situation seem amusing, calm him down, keep him focussed. Even while he was talking he was busy getting ready, settling the jacket again and using his belt to attach himself to a strut.

"Okay, Sir Edmund, get yourself down here."

For a second Doyle couldn't move. He couldn't think beyond Bodie being on all fours and him having to get close enough to be grabbed and hung on to. It wasn't hot on the bridge, but Christ, his temperature was going up just thinking about it. But he couldn't think that now. Not with an injured man. But it was Bodie and he was going to be so sodding close, the closest they'd been since that night…

"Get a move on. Reggie's waiting."

Taking a deep breath, Doyle got into position, deliberately not thinking about the way Bodie felt crouched behind him, urging him forwards, the feel of those hands on his arse, grabbing at his jeans. It took a bit of wriggling around, but soon he was head down over the edge of the bridge with Bodie hanging on to him. But despite their best efforts, Reggie remained stubbornly out of reach, with not quite the strength from anywhere to either pull himself up or to let go and take Doyle's hands.

"Further," Doyle called back over his shoulder.

Bodie grunted in reply, the strain of supporting Doyle's weight already telling in his voice. Doyle caught his breath as he dropped another few inches downwards, finally close enough to grab Reggie and start hauling.

"You alright?" he asked as he wrapped his arms around the injured agent.

"Will be."

Doyle wasn't so sure. Reggie's eyes looked like pissholes in the snow and a light sheen of sweat coated his top lip. If they were going to get him up this way, they'd better make it fast. "Hang on tight," he said and then yelled, "Got him!"

There was another grunt from above and, slowly, inch by painful inch, they started upwards with Reggie's arms around to Doyle's neck as Doyle hung onto his arms. Their heads were close enough to rest against each other and Doyle could hear the quiet whimpers each time Bodie jerked them up. This must be hell on Reggie, painful and terrifying, and right now Doyle himself was feeling like an over-stretched elastic band.

"Nearly there," he muttered. "Just hang on, nearly there."

"How's….How's…"

Reggie's voice fading was all the warning he got before the body in his arms went totally limp.

"Fuck, Bodie!" Doyle yelled tightening his arms around Reggie's back. It wasn't enough. It wasn't going to be enough. His hands were slipping. Losing their grip. He was going to drop him. "Bodie!" Frantic now.

The hands on his jeans and jacket hauled again, putting even more strain on his wrists. They slipped, lost their grip. Reggie shifted lower in his grasp. "I'm losing him!"

"… second!"

With a last strained tug, he was safe, but Reggie wasn't. Doyle howled in frustration as his grip finally failed and Reggie fell from his grasp, over and over, landing with a splash twenty feet below.

"Bodie!" Doyle yelled and ducked as a shadow dove over his head - Bodie in a perfect racing dive, straight into the river. "Bloody idiot," he yelled after him and swung his leg over the railing to start back down. It was probably pointless, but he had to try. Maybe Bodie would manage to hang on to the piers. Maybe he'd be able to rescue both of them. Maybe if he went in as well.

He prepared himself for the leap. The water was fierce, dark and racing, sweeping everything back beneath the bridge. If he was lucky, he'd get in cleanly and maybe two of them could-

"Doyle, report!"

Doyle glanced up. Leaning out over the railing, thrown into silhouette by the leaden sky, was Cowley. "7-3 fell, sir. Bodie's gone in after him. I can't see them…" He couldn't see Bodie.

"With me, 4-5." Cowley started walking back along the bridge, expecting Doyle to be there behind him, expecting him to trust Bodie to the river and to the mercies of the currents.

But he's my partner, Doyle wanted to argue. You gave him to me and now you want me to leave him? He glanced once more into the murky water, saw Bodie surface and then dive down again. Relief washed through him. The Cow was right. It wouldn't do any good following Bodie into the water. Their best hope was the river police and even as he jogged after his boss, Doyle heard the roar of a launch heading downstream towards them.

***

Bodie was perched on the back step of an ambulance, wrapped in a blanket and sipping a steaming mug of something by the time Doyle finally caught up with him. Ignoring the throngs of forensics people milling around and the uniform bobbies keeping Joe Public away, he took a seat beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. "How's Reggie?"

"Water woke him up," Bodie replied, shivering. "Morrison?"

Doyle reached over and pulled the blanket more closely around him. "Didn't make it."

They sat in silence, staring out over the river. There wasn't much to be said, really. It happened. A hazard of the job. They both knew it and had joined up anyway. And they both knew that next time it could be them.

After a few minutes, Doyle nudged his partner and nodded at the drink. "What’s that then?"

"Think it's supposed to be tea." Bodie frowned at the mug. "Could be anything, though. All I can taste is the Thames."

"Lovely."

"Nah, not really. It's a bit like that cabbage stuff. Y'know, that Germans eat."

"Sauerkraut?"

"That's the one." Bodie looked as miserable as hell, hunched there with the red blanket tucked under his chin.

"Thought you'd go the same way as Reggie for a bit," Doyle said finally, looking straight ahead past the bustling agents and ambulancemen, across the murk of the water. "Nearly jumped in after you."

"What stopped you?"

"Cowley. Told me to follow 'im, then took off just as though I would."

"So you did your job."

"Yeah."

Silence.

"Except – I was still going to jump." Doyle sideways finally, met Bodie's eyes. "Then I saw you pop out of the water like Jonah's whale and knew you'd always float… oof!" he winced as an elbow met his ribs, but when he looked back up Bodie was smiling.

"And here we are."

"And here we are." Doyle agreed. Sitting together on the back of an ambulance at the end of a day at work.

"You know what we need now?"

"Well you need a shower, I can tell you that much."

"And food. Definitely food. Fancy a chinky?" Bodie paused, held his gaze, "And then a long night in bed, I reckon. Until it's time to go to work again."

Doyle felt hope well up inside him and he nodded as he jumped down, grabbing Bodie's shoulder for support, solid and warm under his hand.

***

Bodie showered, Doyle collected the food, but after that they only just made it as far as the couch again, Doyle on the offensive, tumbling Bodie down beneath him. The bag containing the Chinese lay forgotten by the door. There were more important things. 

A hand shoved at Doyle's shoulder and he reluctantly surrendered the kiss. He lifted his head and stared blindly down, fixated on those lips, swollen and wet. Lips that were moving. Saying something. Saying... "Slow down. For Christ's sake, Doyle, slow it down."

Slow? He wasn't sure that was actually within his abilities at this moment, but he gave it his best shot. Groaning in a heartfelt way, he levered himself up on his arms and took a few deep breaths, trying to convince his brain that yes, it did need to still think.

"Why?" he demanded, though it came out as more of a whine.

"`Cause I've got no intention of ruining these trousers, that's why. Already ruined one pair today." With an extra shove, Bodie pushed him off and onto the floor, then with a shimmy, stripped himself of cords, pants and socks, and yanked his shirts off over his head.

Doyle stared up at him, entranced by the show, by every pale inch being revealed. He knew just how smooth that skin was, how warm, how firm the muscles beneath. The way they twitched and jerked.

There was a hand held out to him. Doyle took it and was tugged to his feet, straight into Bodie's arms. This time, despite his wants, despite the fact that they were now his needs, he was in control, able to stay that way as Bodie began stripping him in turn. "Want you," he muttered against Bodie's shoulder, flicking out his tongue to taste salt sweat.

"Makes two of us," Bodies replied and threw his head back with a groan as Doyle closed his hand around the erection jabbing him in the leg. "You do that, s'gonna be your jeans."

"Don't care." The urgency was rising, lifting his balls in a way he'd not felt since he was a kid. Bloody ridiculous. Should have more control than this, he thought as he shuffled Bodie backward onto the couch. He kicked his jeans off on the way down and now there was nothing between them. No clothing to get in the way. Nothing but skin on skin, heat on heat, hardness against hardness as their cocks nudged together.

Hands palmed his buttocks, stroked firmly up and down his back, scratched across his ribs and flanks, and all the while he plundered Bodie's mouth. Somewhere there were answers. Reasons why this man set his nerves aflame, made him throw caution to the wind. Because that was what he was doing. Again. Only now, now he knew he didn't need to choose between Bodie and the job. He could have both. He half smiled at the thought that flashed white as heat across his mind - he could do both.

Then even that level of thought was gone, and only the need remained. The need to thrust against and into, to be surrounded and gripped and to pump as the pleasure increased, ricocheting him to painful heights. With a cry and a bone-deep shudder, his hips slammed to a halt and heat flooded between them. Wet, wonderful heat, slicking their bellies and then there was more and Bodie was holding him so damn tight he could hardly grab a breath but it didn't matter because he couldn't breathe anyway, could do nothing except shake and pulse and feel it from his toes to his fingertips.

When reality rushed back, it did so with urgent unfairness. A familiar crackle came from the back of the chair where Bodie's jacket lay. "Control to 3-7. Control to 3-7."

Doyle's world tilted and he slipped sideways, colliding with the back of the sofa as Bodie scrambled to grab his RT. "Copy control."

"Is 4-5 there with you?"

Doyle frowned as Bodie turned towards him. "Yeah, he's here. We were just having a quick bite." Those eloquent eyebrows waggled and Doyle manage to raise a smile. Not that he was up to raising much more right now. In fact he felt like a wrung out dishcloth, not exactly the best state to be in when he was called out.

Hang on. They were off duty. Both of them. They weren't on standby - they shouldn't be on call-out. Especially not after this evening.

Opening his mouth to point that out, Doyle realised Bodie had finished with the RT and was putting it away. "HQ, dawn tomorrow," Bodie said, grabbing his undershirt and dabbing at his stomach. He grimaced and tossed it aside. "I need a wash."

Doyle relaxed back against the couch. "Any clue as to why?" he asked as he mopped himself up, with little more success.

"`Cause I'm covered in your Jimmy wrigglers and they're sticky?"

"Berk."

Bodie yelped as the cushion flew towards him and ducked out through the door. After a second, he reappeared. "Reckon we can manage that again?" he said innocently.

Keeping his cool, Doyle stood up, and gave his partner a considering look. "Not sure you're up to it, mate. I mean look at you?"

Bodie glanced down, brushing a hand across his belly. "What?" Taking advantage of his distraction, Doyle launched himself across the room. Work could wait for tomorrow. Right now was their time, and he didn't plan on wasting a second of it.

  


The End


End file.
